


Drop the Niceties

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Canon Era, First Time, Fluff, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rank Disparity, Romance, Sharing a Bed, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-14
Updated: 2017-10-14
Packaged: 2019-01-17 01:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12354951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: In which winter is harrowing, Hamilton is terrible at minding his own health, and doctor's orders land him in Washington's bed.





	Drop the Niceties

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cattlaydee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cattlaydee/gifts).



When winter comes, Alexander Hamilton is not ready. Not by a fucking long shot.

He's never experienced cold like this. His first winter with the army—his first winter _away from Nevis_ —and it is a jarring and painful revelation. Other deprivations he can shrug off with a roll of his shoulders and a grim smile, but this? This is something else entirely. This is ice burrowing inside him so deep it hurts, and he doesn't know how to cope.

Not that he has any intention of admitting his difficulties to anyone, his general least of all. Hamilton's got no intention of showing weakness in the face of this wintry hell.

He is too stubborn, and too ambitious, and too desperate to prove he belongs here. Never mind the way the cold seeps into his joints and limbs and chest. Never mind the way the chill makes it difficult to write and impossible to sleep. Never mind that even sharing a bedroll with John Laurens, as officers begin pairing up for warmth, _does not help_. He can never seem to get warm.

But he will be damned before he complains.

Before the snows began, Hamilton worked late purely because there was so much to do, a symptom of his relentless desire to be useful. Now those motivations are matched by a desire to stay in the relative warmth of the workroom as much as possible. There's a fireplace that burns until late into the night, and Hamilton sits as close as he can get without setting his parchment aflame.

It's only a matter of time before someone calls him out. No surprise that it's Laurens who ultimately corners him. They've grown close in a short matter of months. There's no one else better equipped to notice Hamilton's habits, or his efforts to suffer in silence.

The fact that Laurens disapproves is also inevitable.

"Why are you doing this to yourself?" John's eyes are worried and far too knowing. Despite the sincerity of the question, it couldn't be clearer that he already suspects the answer.

Hamilton bites his tongue and fidgets in his chair. The papers before him rustle faintly, drying in the frigid air. It's a wonder the ink hasn't frozen in the bottles atop the table. 

Headquarters stands empty. _Truly_ empty. The hour is late, and Washington has gone from camp tonight. Hamilton is doing his damnedest not to think about the dangers his general is surely facing out on the road. If the cold is untenable here in this workroom, how much worse must it be in the open? Riding fast on horseback, or huddling inside a tent with only a campfire for heat? He shivers even as he forces the idea from his mind. There's nothing he can do but finish his own work.

He will not admit aloud, even to the man who is fast becoming his best friend, that he pushes himself as much for Washington's approval as for his own ferocious ambitions.

Exasperation flashes in John's expression. "Alexander, you have _nothing to prove_."

A flare of anger ignites in Hamilton's chest. "Easy for you to say. Your station is secure no matter the outcome of this war." The retort is unkind—short and harsh—and Hamilton drops his gaze to the table, to his ink-smudged fingers.

"That's not fair," Laurens says.

Hamilton smoothes his hackles back down with difficulty. "I'm sorry." But he doesn't raise his eyes with the apology. Silently, he prays his friend will let the matter drop.

Instead John presses, "You won't gain a damn thing by destroying your health. You run yourself ragged doing twice the work expected of any aide, to what purpose? Washington wouldn't ask this of _anyone_."

"He doesn't _have_ to ask. Whatever he needs, I intend to provide."

"Alexander," John says more softly, "you demand too much of yourself.

"I _don't care_ ," Hamilton snarls, defenses rising. "The general needs me. He's our only chance of winning this war."

"The general has other aides." John's answer carries a certain dry edge. "And he is only a man."

Hamilton's head snaps up so fast his neck twinges. He is furious at his friend's dismissive tone; he is ready to _fight_ —

But the argument dissolves from his tongue when he sees how Laurens is looking at him. John's expression is not combative; it's _scared_ , or at the very least worried. For Hamilton's health? No, they've been arguing about Alexander's health for weeks without any glimmer of such an expression. Something else has put Laurens on his guard.

Hamilton bites his tongue and forces himself to meet John's eyes steadily without saying a word.

The ferocious expression softens, but the worry doesn't dissipate entirely. After a moment John says, "I've seen the way you look at him."

Hamilton's chest ices. "I don't know what you're—"

"Please don't lie to me." Laurens sounds sad rather than angry. He doesn't shy beneath the defensive glint in Hamilton's stare. "You're my best friend. I would never divulge your secrets or put you in danger."

A scowl spreads across Hamilton's face, and he drops his gaze once more, staring down at the half-finished letter beneath his hands. He refuses to feel guilty. But he also trusts John Laurens implicitly. There's no point trying again to lie to him.

"You need to be more careful, Alexander. If anyone else were to suspect—"

"I know." He's reasonably certain Washington wouldn't send him away over a foolish infatuation—Hamilton has gone to great lengths to make himself too useful to dismiss—but there are other officers who would not be so pragmatic. It's a dangerous secret: wanting his general as he does could cost him his life just as easily as his reputation.

He had thought himself discreet. Apparently he was wrong, and the revelation sends a trickle of fear along his skin.

Rather than lecture him further, Laurens stands and claps Hamilton on the shoulder. He moves to leave, but pauses at the door. "Washington knows your worth. You don't need to prove yourself to him."

Then he is gone, and Hamilton is alone. There is only the cold, the late hour, and of course the work before him into which Hamilton hurls himself with measurable relief.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

If only stubbornness were truly enough to keep a body going.

Hamilton knows damn well he can't keep this pace forever. It's only a matter of time before his health begins to suffer exactly as Laurens has hinted so often. Hell, between the cold and the fact that he barely sleeps, it's a wonder he forges on as long as he does.

Even once he takes ill, Hamilton conceals the fact as long as he can. He continues to work as a vicious fever overtakes him. All the aides are so cold, every hour of the day, that no one pays much mind to anyone else. No one notices Hamilton struggling to still his shaking hands enough to write, because after all, who _isn't_ shivering in the face of such icy working conditions? If he falls asleep atop his work—more than once—at least he manages to do it when there is no one else in headquarters. He puts on the steadiest front he can manage whenever Lafayette and Laurens urge him to set aside his quill.

He can't maintain the illusion forever.

Daylight stabs through gauzy curtains at the workroom windows. It's early, and headquarters is a restless whirlwind as officers and couriers come and go. Hamilton has barely moved from his seat near the hearth. His head throbs painfully, and his swollen throat aches as though he's swallowed a fistful of loose gravel.

With difficulty he keeps his focus on the letters before him. If he doesn't talk, perhaps no one will notice that he has very nearly lost his voice to the fever coursing through him.

"Hamilton." Washington stands in the open hall door. "I need to dictate a letter."

"Of course, Your Excellency." Hamilton puts as much strength into the words as he can, trying to sound normal. He sets aside his own work and caps the ink bottle. There will be all he needs by way of foolscap, ink, fresh quills in Washington's private quarters, and he crosses the workroom empty-handed.

He knows something is wrong even before he reaches Washington's side. His senses spin, the world tilting more sharply with every step, making it difficult to move steadily forward. Though he is only fuzzily aware of his surroundings, he notices Washington's attention hone in on him with startled concern.

Hamilton opens his mouth to protest that there's no need to look at him like that—he's _fine_ —but his voice catches somewhere in his scratchy swollen throat. Suddenly the room is spinning worse than before. Bright patches pop in his vision, and his knees give out beneath him.

For a fading and addled moment he's not sure how he _isn't_ on the floor.

Then he notices the wall of heat pressed along his side and realizes Washington has arrested his fall. Muscular arms support him, more or less upright, and it takes Hamilton another moment to notice that Washington is speaking. No, not just speaking. Through a haze of failing consciousness he hears his general barking clipped orders for someone to summon the doctor. For a ridiculous moment all he can think is that it's not goddamn _fair_. Washington is holding him—Washington's arms are around him _right now_ —and Hamilton can't enjoy the sensation because he's busy passing out.

These grievances constitute Hamilton's last coherent thoughts. His eyes slip shut and new distance muffles the throbbing beneath his skull, the ache in his exhausted limbs. Another heartbeat and unconsciousness closes over him, empty and crushing and complete.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Hamilton wakes comfortable and very nearly warm. The floor is far softer than it should be beneath him. Even the blankets covering him are less scratchy than they should be wherever they touch his skin. His eyes blink reluctantly open to daylight, and confusion swirls in his head. How can it be daylight? He can't remember the last time he slept through sunrise.

It takes long moments of staring at the ceiling to remember, and several seconds longer to orient himself to his surroundings. He can hear a stove creaking and crackling with fire, and there are a startling number of blankets piled on top of him. He is in an _actual bed_ , stripped down to his shirt and bundled securely.

These are Washington's quarters. They must be.

When Hamilton drops his gaze from the ceiling, he finds he is not alone: Washington sits at his heavily laden desk. The room isn't large, which means that even though the desk is by the door, the general is not far away. The sight of him makes Hamilton's stomach swoop. Ridiculous, the way heat suffuses his cheeks just because Washington is near.

Washington shifts in his chair and seems to belatedly realize Hamilton is awake. A moment later he sets his work aside and rises, crosses the room to sit on the edge of the bed. He does not speak a word.

The worried proximity clashes with the thunderous look on Washington's stern face.

Hamilton stares up at his general and very much wishes he were not lying prone on his back. He feels vulnerable and ridiculous; he can hardly look Washington in the eye this way. But even now his head is fuzzy and his whole body aches. He very much doubts that attempting to sit up would go well for him.

He's already passed out in his general's arms and woken in his chambers; he doesn't need to compound his embarrassment by falling over again.

Washington seems disinclined to break the silence, so Hamilton finally speaks.

"Why am I in your bed?" The question comes out graveled and weak.

Washington's heavy brow furrows deeper. "I carried you here because it's the warmest room in the house. Doctor Mann's orders." There is disapproval etched in every line of his face, in the tightness of his shoulders, in the quiet scowl curling the corners of his mouth.

And oh, that is _not_ something Hamilton needed to picture. His general _carrying him to bed_. He is mortified at the thought.

He is also, confusingly and simultaneously, warmed by it. The rising blush leaves him lightheaded.

Praying Washington doesn't notice, or at least mistakes the color in his cheeks for a symptom of fever, Hamilton asks, "How long was I out?"

"Four hours." Washington doesn't even check his pocket watch before answering. He must have been marking the time closely indeed.

Hamilton suddenly wants nothing more than to crawl beneath these bedclothes and hide. If he was mortified before, he is absolutely appalled now. To prove such a nuisance... What excuse can he possibly offer?

"I'm sorry about the letter," he rasps, remembering there was a reason Washington came looking for him. "I... I could take dictation now."

"Don't be ridiculous." Washington touches Hamilton's forehead with the back of his hand, gauging temperature for a moment before sitting back. The same hand drops thoughtlessly to Hamilton's chest and remains there, heavy and distracting. His clipped tone contradicts the unexpected gentleness of the gesture. There is no mistaking the fact that he's genuinely upset when he continues, "You've already carried this farce far enough."

Hamilton flinches. His gaze breaks away and lands on the wall behind Washington.

It's difficult to keep his voice steady, impossible to put any strength behind it. "I'm sorry I inconvenienced you."

Even though he is no longer looking directly into Washington's face, he sees the general's expression ease fractionally. The deep groove at the center of his brow smoothes, and there is the barest slouch in posture. Hamilton doesn't know what to make of these things, so he bites his tongue to keep from speaking—to avoid offering unwanted excuses and explanations.

Finally Washington says, "Colonel, I'm not annoyed with you for collapsing when summoned. I am _furious with you_ for endangering yourself in the first place."

Hamilton does not intend to make eye contact, but he meets that unrelenting gaze anyway. "Sir?"

Washington's expression is still stern, but there's a bright glint of feeling in his eyes. "I knew you held little regard for your own wellbeing, but you push yourself too far. I cannot and _will not_ allow this to continue. You must take better care of yourself."

Hamilton resists the urge to argue that there's too much to do. That he can't _afford_ to take better care of himself, when the work to be completed is so vast and impossible. That he would die willingly at his general's command, health be damned, so long as he can be useful.

Something tells him the arguments would not be well received. Better to leave them unspoken. Once he is well enough to resume his duties, he can continue as he was.

But Washington's eyes narrow, and Hamilton has the distinct impression his general is reading past his uncharacteristic quiet to the true intentions beneath.

"I'm serious, my boy. This is not a negotiation. I am _ordering you_ to have a care for your own health."

"But, sir—" Hamilton begins to protest, guilty and caught out.

"No," Washington interrupts with unyielding finality. His hand still rests on Hamilton's chest, heavy even through the nest of blankets. His fingers spread wide as though caging in Hamilton's fevered heartbeat. "If you will not think of yourself, then think of _me_. How will I manage this war without my chief of staff?"

"You have other aides," Hamilton protests weakly. He recognizes his mistake in the cloud of frustration that hardens Washington's stare.

"They are _not you_. None of my staff can be so easily replaced, Alexander. You least of all." Only now does Washington withdraw his hand and set it restlessly on his own knee. "I will monitor your health myself if I must. But I'd rather know I can trust you to follow my orders."

Hamilton's stomach clenches at the subtle rebuke. "You _can_ trust me."

Again a lengthy silence falls between them, and Hamilton does not dare break it. Washington peers at him as though doing his best to divine the very contents of his soul. It's not a comfortable experience. Hamilton can't help but feel his general is succeeding—an unpleasant thought. He doesn't much like to consider his own soul; he certainly doesn't want this man he esteems above all others to glimpse the depths of his worst self.

Eventually the scrutiny softens, and Hamilton discovers he has been holding his breath. He inhales deeply and ignores the way it makes his head spin.

"Very well." Washington nods. "In any case, you have little choice in the coming weeks. You'll be sleeping here until the weather improves."

Hamilton gapes. "You can't be serious."

Washington quirks a single deliberate eyebrow. "I'm entirely serious. These are also direct orders from Doctor Mann. You require warmer accommodations, and my quarters are the warmest available."

"I don't need special treatment!" Hamilton protests. His rising voice makes him painfully aware of his sore and swollen throat. Talking more quietly he could almost pretend the pain away, even if there is no disguising the sandpaper grit. But at a higher volume the pain catches and makes his eyes water.

"Enough," Washington says, with a gravity that makes Hamilton's chest ache. "You _must_ keep warm to recover from your current malady. And I have no intention of letting you fall ill again."

There's sense in everything Washington is saying. This room, this bed, the stove burning pleasantly in the corner. That stove is the only one outside the medical tent that burns straight through the night. Hamilton should be grateful he's under orders to enjoy such comforts. It feels like he has not been warm in several lifetimes.

But Washington requires these comforts; a general can't lead an army if he's not properly rested himself.

"Sir, I can't oust you from your bed."

Washington's other eyebrow rises alongside the first. "No. Indeed you cannot."

Hamilton's forehead creases with confusion. "Sir?"

"The rest of the officers are already sharing their beds for warmth. Even a general must sometimes make such allowances, for the protection of the men in his care."

Oh, that is even worse. Washington is not _giving his bed over_ to Hamilton. He intends to share. And of course, no matter how deeply he peers into Hamilton's soul, he won't divine what a torture he is proposing.

But Hamilton possesses no argument strong enough to override Doctor Mann's decree. Not unless he wants to explain his real reasoning: that he relishes the idea too much. Which means there is nothing he can do besides accept the inevitable.

With no further arguments, Hamilton stops talking. His throat burns. The water Washington hands him—helping him sit upright to drink it—hurts going down, but Hamilton finishes it all.

" _Sleep_ ," Washington commands when he is settled once more.

Hamilton is not remotely tempted to disobey. Closing his eyes is a genuine relief. Sleep tugs him quickly down, past the tangle of physical hurts vying for attention, distancing uncomfortable reality in favor of a dull and blessed nothing.

He's sure he imagines the sensation of a kiss pressed to his forehead, as he drifts swiftly and exhaustedly away.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

Hamilton doesn't wake until sunset.

The room is uncomfortably bright thanks to the west-facing windows, and his aching skull protests the red-tinged light. Pain throbs in perfect rhythm with his heartbeat, and all he wants is to burrow completely beneath the covers. Instead he looks to Washington's desk, but the general isn't there.

A throat clears from the direction of the door, and Hamilton cranes his neck to look.

John Laurens stands just inside the room, holding a bowl between his hands. 

"How do you feel?" Laurens eases farther into the room and sits on the edge of the bed, setting the bowl down on the overturned crate that passes for a nightstand. Without being asked, he helps Hamilton sit upright against the headboard.

This new position costs Hamilton some measure of his tightly swaddled warmth, but he doesn't complain. He doesn't bother answering the question at all, in fact. His throat burns sullenly, and John won't be offended by his silence.

"Here." John hands him the bowl—an unappetizing amalgam of mush so thick the spoon stands upright of its own accord. "I'm sorry it's not warm. I carried it here from the kitchen tent. I... Could put it on the stove for a few minutes?"

"This is fine," Hamilton says in a voice that scratches even at a whisper. It's not fair—he is more rested than he's been in days—why does he feel and sound _worse_ than before he collapsed? He forces himself to eat the cooling porridge, every last bite, despite the way his throat protests every swallow.

He wonders if John is expecting an explanation for his continued presence in this room. He can't fathom providing one if the effort will require him to speak at length. Perhaps he can write it down instead.

But once Hamilton finishes eating, Laurens takes the bowl from him and says, "So you're sleeping here from now on?" He says it lightly enough, but there's something leery in the words. A deeper meaning that makes Hamilton glance across the room to make sure the door is firmly shut.

It is.

"Only until the weather improves," he says with measured effort.

"Mmhmm."

Defensive crackles in Hamilton's chest, and he glowers. "It wasn't my idea."

John shrugs one shoulder pointedly. "Fine. Who am I to meddle? Hell, I'd put up with the general snoring in my ear if it meant sleeping in a room with a proper stove. I haven't been warm in _weeks_."

Hamilton stares silently at his friend, tense with anticipation.

John barely pauses long enough to acknowledge his silence before concluding, soft and cautious, "But I'm not the one in love with him."

If Hamilton were still holding the bowl of porridge, he'd have dropped it in his lap for certain. As it stands, he's left gawping and flummoxed by John's blunt words.

He scowls harder and hisses, "I'm not in love with Washington."

John simply _looks_ at him, bland and unflinching.

" _Fuck_." Hamilton drops his eyes. He closes them completely a moment later.

They are both quiet for a very long time.

Finally Laurens asks, "Are you going to be okay?"

"Yes," Hamilton says.

He will have to be.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

That first night is a surreal and sleepless experience. It could be the lingering headache keeping him awake, just as easily as it could be the fact that Hamilton slept almost the entire day through. Sick or not, his body is unaccustomed to so much rest. Perhaps it's only reasonable that he finds himself wide awake as midnight stretches endless around him.

More likely it's got nothing to do with those things, and everything to do with _Washington_ , there in the bed with him. They aren't touching—the bed is large enough to comfortably accommodate both of them—but Washington's warmth is still potent beside him. The handspan of space between them is not enough for Hamilton to pretend he's in this bed alone. Worse, the moonlight sneaking through the nearest window gives him a remarkably clear view of Washington's face.

The general is a handsome man even under trying circumstances, but here. Here, features smoothed by sleep, he is devastating to behold. Beautiful. The sight makes Hamilton's chest ache.

Despite John's predictions, Washington doesn't snore. His chest rises and falls with quiet breaths, a steady rhythm that calms Hamilton even if it does nothing to lull him to sleep. And it's nice, in its way—being able to watch like this without fear of rebuke. Washington is deep asleep, and there is no one to notice Hamilton watching his general with far too much feeling for a devoted soldier.

There is no one to accuse him of being lost or lovesick. No one besides himself. And _Hamilton_ is already aware he has a problem.

He doesn't expect to sleep. He's fully prepared to count away the hours until dawn. But against all odds sleep overtakes him anyway. His dreams, strange and skittish, echo reality just closely enough to leave him _aware_ that he is dreaming. Daily routines and unfamiliar war camps, frigid gray skies for miles. More than once the imagery around him shifts and changes, painting a new scene. But every time there's an element of anxiety following him. A task not yet completed, a message undelivered, a valuable item misplaced. Even knowing none of this is real doesn't help ease the fear of failure. If he only tries a little harder—

Hamilton wakes to the faint gray of reluctant daylight, and the first thing he notices is that he is warm. Blessedly, impossibly warm all the way from his chin to his toes. The air is chilly on his face where the bedclothes don't cover him, but he barely notices alongside the lethargic heat suffusing him. The second thing he notices is that he has gravitated across the narrow distance, directly into Washington's space.

Directly into Washington's arms.

 _Fuck_.

He holds perfectly still despite the frantic racing of his heart. His face, chilly seconds before, flushes hot. He closes his eyes and wills his body to calm.

His body doesn't listen. He should extricate himself from Washington's arms, but he can't bring himself to move. Less selfish indulgence, more fear: if he moves and Washington wakes, how will he explain? Better to keep still and wait for Washington to shift in his sleep. The arms holding him so tightly will have to loosen eventually. Hamilton will simply wait for the right opportunity to retreat.

The opportunity never comes. One moment Washington is asleep, holding him too close to escape discreetly. The next Washington draws a long breath, coming quickly and obviously awake. He lets go of Hamilton without giving any hint of surprise. As though there's nothing untoward about waking with his chief of staff curled like a stray kitten in his arms.

Maybe there isn't. Maybe Washington is so entirely unaware of him that he sees nothing intimate or inappropriate in such closeness.

The thought should relieve him. Somehow it doesn't. Instead it ignites a low simmer of rejected hurt in Hamilton's chest. To feel so invisible, when all he has _ever wanted_ is to be worthy of notice... It burns somewhere shameful.

He feigns sleep as Washington withdraws from the bed, instantly missing the contained inferno of body heat. There is a lengthy rustling of fabric and furniture as Washington dons his uniform and prepares for the day. Imperfect silence.

The sound of his general's morning routine goes a long way toward calming Hamilton's nerves.

He hears footsteps drawing close, and then true quiet. He can feel his general's eyes on him. Wonders how he looks. A sleep-tousled mess, still flushed with fever, buried in blankets that do not belong to him. He must be a monstrous sight to behold; he can't fathom why Washington stares at him in silence for so long.

"Good morning," Washington says when Hamilton grudgingly opens his eyes. A moment later and he's pressing the back of his hand to Hamilton's forehead, a repeat of yesterday's worried touch. "Your fever's gone down. I'll have one of the boys fetch you breakfast."

"I can fetch my own breakfast," Hamilton grumbles. He suspects it isn't true, but his pride requires a token protest.

"You can stay _exactly where you are_ ," Washington counters. "I'll have clean water brought for the basin."

 _Where are you going_? Hamilton very nearly asks, but bites his tongue to prevent himself saying something so plaintive. Of course Washington doesn't intend to stay. There's work to be done, and no reason for him to remain in this room tending a sick soldier. The mountain of correspondence on Washington's desk represents only a fraction of the general's responsibilities.

Washington moves for the door, but pauses halfway across the room. When he turns to face the bed once more there's a stern expression on his face.

"Sir?" Hamilton asks.

"You are not to touch a quill in my absence."

"But, _sir_ —"

"That is a _direct order_ , Colonel."

And even at his most insubordinate, Hamilton cannot disobey a direct order.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

By day three Hamilton's fever is gone. His throat is no longer an angry, swollen agony. When he speaks, he sounds very much like his normal self.

Every night he has found his way into Washington's arms. And every morning Washington has extricated himself as though this is only a matter of course. Perhaps it is. After all, what's the point of sharing a bed for warmth if they're not going to touch at all. He certainly woke in John's arms—or with John spooned snugly in his—plenty of times before the change in sleeping arrangements.

For the first time he's well enough to wonder how John is keeping warm without him. He must be managing; there are plenty of other aides to bed down with.

Without permission to so much as _look_ at Washington's correspondence, Hamilton has been going slowly out of his mind. Even sleeping most of the day, there is too little to occupy him if he's not allowed to work. He has a handful of his books near at hand; Doctor Mann has not permitted him to write, but at least he's been able to continue some fragment of his studies.

It's still a tangible relief to be deemed healthy enough to reclaim his responsibilities. He relishes the thought of a full day out of this bed. Even the promise of returning to the cold workroom doesn't dampen his mood.

Washington enters the room just as he's securing the final buttons of his waistcoat. When Hamilton looks up, he discerns something genuinely pleased in his general's eye.

Strange, to find himself surprised Washington is glad to see him healthy. The man made no secret of his worry. Yet now, standing here at nearly full health, is the first time Hamilton allows himself to believe it. To recognize the glint of something that can only be affection in Washington's eyes and accept it as genuine.

It is distinctly possible he's too stubborn for his own good.

It's not stubbornness alone that makes him suggest, "Now that I'm well, I can return to my place among the other aides." Such a course would contravene the doctor's instructions, but those were delivered days ago. Hamilton is fine now. He feels rested and restless, ready to be released from the torment of having his general within arm's reach. "I'm sure I'll manage against the cold, and you must sorely miss your privacy."

"Don't be ridiculous." Washington stares at Hamilton as though his chief of staff has legitimately lost his mind. "Of course you'll remain here. Why on God's Earth would I send you away only to risk your getting sick again?"

"I won't get sick." Hamilton resists the urge to channel his excess energy into nervous pacing. It takes a great deal of focus to stand still and meet his general's eyes, but he lets his determination show. He _will not_ fall sick again. He has direct orders to mind his own health, and ample motivation to do so. The cold will still be a problem, but one he can surely manage if he stops avoiding sleep.

A different expression clouds Washington's face as they regard each other, and after a moment the general hesitantly begins, "If I've made you uncomfortable in some way—"

"No," he interrupts. No, there is nothing _Washington_ has done to make Hamilton uncomfortable in his warm and inviting bed. It's a problem all Hamilton's own, and one he will not lay at his general's feet. "I just... don't want to impose."

"You're not an imposition." Washington looks away, toward the desk that has grown heavily laden during Hamilton's convalescence. There's a hint of unaccustomed self-consciousness in his profile. "The truth is, I find the cold difficult as well. I've slept better these past nights than I have in weeks."

The confession catches Hamilton entirely off guard. It's an innocuous thing to admit. Who _doesn't_ despise this pervasive cold? But it is also a revelation in its way. Washington doesn't admit weakness often. For him to entrust this admission to Hamilton is significant.

It drives out any lingering urge Hamilton might harbor to fight. He has sworn to be any-and-everything his general needs. How can he possibly deny him this?

Hamilton will adapt to the strange illusion of intimacy, and he will not protest again.

\- — - — - — - — - — - — -

For a time the weather only grows colder. Even during the day the sun doesn't help—if anything clear skies make the chill worse—but at night Hamilton is selfishly grateful for the reliable stove burning in the corner. He is equally, if guiltily, grateful for the warm body sharing the bed with him. Washington's heat staves off the worst of the icy wind blowing through imperfect walls.

Hamilton tries to imagine sleeping in his place among the other aides, and finds he can't. Winter is closing in hard and unforgiving—a strangle-hold of ice and snow—and Hamilton would surely be frozen solid if he had only his own sparse blankets and John Laurens to warm him.

No matter how guilty he might feel for misusing Washington's generosity, at least here in the general's bed he can _sleep_ , without wearing his full uniform simply to avoid losing feeling in his extremities.

He and Washington grow accustomed to each other as the days pass. Hamilton doesn't stop wanting, but he learns to set such thoughts aside for the sake of his own sanity—a feat that grows gradually easier as this unorthodox intimacy becomes routine.

The first time he wakes with his cock hard, he is mortified.

Held so close against his general's chest, chin tucked beneath Washington's jaw, arms wedged firmly between them—he is wrapped so tightly in his general's embrace that it seems impossible for Washington to mistake the sensation. Hamilton should remove himself from this bed while there's still a chance Washington is asleep. Dawn is just now upon them. He can extricate himself, begin his day, and pretend desperately that this did not happen.

Instead he lies there in Washington's arms, motionless and flushed with shame. When Washington swore he was not an imposition, the general surely did not have this circumstance in mind.

But when Washington stirs a few minutes later, he takes no apparent notice. Doesn't say a word—perhaps he thinks Hamilton is still asleep—as he unwinds and disentangles himself in order to rise from the bed.

It's possible he truly _didn't_ notice, but Hamilton is doubtful. Washington didn't attain the rank of major general by being oblivious to the world around him. It would seem, however improbable, that the man simply does not care.

Fortunate, since the occurrence doesn't remain an isolated incident.

Maybe it's a function of the unlikely comfort he feels in Washington's arms; the sense of security and safety is novel, and it grows with every passing day.

More likely it's simple biology; Hamilton doesn't need a warm body in his bed in order to wake up hard. And every time the occurrence goes unremarked, his mortification eases. Washington never calls him out, and as neither of them acknowledges the awkwardness, it gradually ceases to be awkward at all.

Then one morning he wakes and _Washington_ is hard. The general is breathing slow and steady, curled close along Hamilton's back without so much as a sliver of space between them. Their proximity makes it impossible to ignore the stiff nudge of Washington's cock, and the sensation tips Hamilton from sleepy fog to startled wakefulness in a jarring instant.

God, it shouldn't feel this good. It should not be raising heat to his face and hunger beneath his skin. He has _no right_ to want his general to touch him.

But Washington's breath is warm along his throat, faster now. There's a forward stutter of hips, clearly unintentional. And then— _fuck_ —Washington makes an inarticulate sound and nuzzles at Hamilton's nape, presses a sleepy kiss just beneath the hinge of his jaw.

Hamilton closes his eyes, biting his bottom lip hard to keep from whimpering.

Washington's entire body tenses a moment later. There's sudden wakefulness in the way he eases back. He takes his hands carefully off of Alexander, retreating without a word. Hamilton feigns sleep. The alternative is begging Washington _not to stop_ , and Hamilton isn't quite that stupid.

It happens again a couple mornings later.

And again the very next day.

Each time there is the thrilling, guilty moment before Washington is truly awake, in which Hamilton could almost pretend this belongs to him. Each time there is also the startled moment of retreat. And each time Hamilton pretends to notice nothing.

Even this becomes nearly routine as the worst windy torrents of winter skulk past. Hamilton finds himself conflicted. He is desperate for the weather to improve—even beyond his own selfish discomfort, the troops are not faring well—but he's also painfully aware that when spring comes he will no longer be welcome in Washington's bed. The illusion of closeness will vanish for the inconvenience it is.

Hamilton should be grateful that soon he will go back to yearning for his general from a safe distance, but he is far too greedy. He doesn't want to give this up.

It's the middle of January when his best intentions finally fail him.

Snow has settled deep and stifling across the entire camp, making even the most ordinary tasks difficult. It's almost as though the army has paused—the war certainly has—both sides hibernating and biding their time. Impossible to tell how the British are faring, but the Continentals are clinging to their strength and supplies by sheer force of will. Hamilton writes letters to Congress almost daily, pleading for supplies the army needs if it is going to survive the lingering weeks of winter.

The perpetual chill in his bones makes it difficult to steady his hands and write. The only times he is warm are in Washington's bed.

He wakes—to howling wind and total darkness—and for once he has no sense whether it is nearly morning or still the middle of the night. Sleep muffles his thoughts, holds him down even as his mind struggles toward wakefulness.

He's turned in Washington's arms tonight, burying himself greedily in his general's warmth so that they lie chest to chest. Hamilton can feel the solid weight of Washington's arm across his hip, the steadily beating heart beneath his cheek, the even rhythm of warm breath at his temple.

He can feel other things too. One thing in particular, the hard nudge of Washington's cock against his hip, unmistakable even through the fabric of their shirts.

Hamilton is just as hard—he _aches_ —but he doesn't move. He is sleepy and at ease, comfortable exactly where he is. In no hurry to remove himself or rise to full consciousness.

Inevitably Washington wakes. There's a hitch in his breath followed by a moment of perfect stillness. Hamilton knows what comes next. The pattern is always the same.

But maybe it doesn't have to be.

If he were more awake, he would be appalled at himself for thinking such a thing. As it is, a pleasant fog softens the edges of the world. Makes this seem like a perfectly reasonable idea. Why _shouldn't_ he show his cards? Nothing could possibly hurt him in this bed, the safest place he has ever existed.

Before Washington can withdraw the way he always does, Hamilton shifts in his arms and kisses him. It's a miracle he finds his target in the dark. Washington's mouth is soft and startled, and the quiet sound he breathes is heavy with shock.

Surprise of his own bursts in Hamilton's chest, and _now_ he is awake. Shocked at his own behavior—terrified and disbelieving—fuck, what has he done? He jerks back, but Washington's arms hold him too tightly for retreat.

Thank God for the total darkness surrounding them.

But even that is a temporary respite. A moment later and moonlight breaks from behind heavy cloud cover, slanting faint blue light through the windows. Illuminating just enough of Washington's face for Hamilton to make out deep lines furrowing a dark brow, and the glint of wide eyes.

He needs to run. He needs to twist free of Washington's arms and find his uniform and _leave_. Lord knows where he will go at this hour, but so long as it's not here he will manage. He can return later. Maybe. Once he's figured out how to word the perfect apology he can return to his general's presence and try to make this right.

Before he can make good on his intentions, _Washington_ moves. Closer instead of away. And when he kisses Hamilton, the world—just for a moment—comes to a complete and glorious stop.

The moment his own shock fades, Hamilton reaches for Washington. No reticence, no hesitation, no holding back now. He moans, a helpless sound muffled by the kiss, and winds one arm around Washington's waist. The other arm has nowhere to go, trapped as it is between their bodies, but Hamilton doesn't mind. He presses his palm over Washington's chest, savoring the rapid heartbeat beneath his hand.

He opens readily for the first tentative touch of Washington's tongue. His lips part, and oh, this is _even better_. A deeper kiss, an exploration both curious and possessive, as Washington's arms tighten around him. The inferno in Hamilton's blood burns brighter with every touch.

In all his months of wanting this, it never occurred to him that Washington might want him too.

Even as the deepening kiss distracts his senses, Hamilton is aware of the hard line of Washington's cock, the not-quite-idle roll of hips. Christ, how could he _fail_ to notice? His own cock stands stiff at attention. He aches with need, and the fleeting friction is at once merciful and maddening.

It is perfect; it is not enough.

Hamilton breaks from the kiss only grudgingly, and only because his lungs have grown desperate for air. The sound he breathes into the quiet is shattered and needy—a sound he would surely be ashamed of in any other circumstance—and he hears Washington gasp aloud in answer.

" _Please_ ," Hamilton groans. He ducks his head and presses a messy kiss to Washington's throat. "Fuck, please, I need—"

He's not sure _what_ he needs. Something more than the teasing hint of friction, the almost accidental brush of their cocks in the overheated space between them.

" _Yes_ ," Washington agrees, apparently understanding despite Hamilton's rare inability to articulate. He curls a firm hand around the line of Hamilton's hip and tugs their bodies flush, slipping one knee between Hamilton's legs.

It is _exactly_ what he needs, the press of Washington's muscular thigh right where he aches for more. Washington's touch guides him now, urging Hamilton to move against him. Giving wordless permission.

Hamilton exhales hard and _moves_ , accepting the offer with eager desperation. The strength in Washington's grip doesn't ease. If anything he holds on more firmly as he coaxes Hamilton to a faster pace, grinding forward in turn. Pressing hot kisses to Hamilton's throat, his jaw, his face—panting warmly into Hamilton's skin as both of them seek their pleasure.

It's overwhelming. A ragged helplessness steals over him, setting Alexander's pulse frantic in his chest. So many things he's wanted without any reasonable hope—a perilous collection of fantasies and impossibilities—and yet here he is. Falling willingly apart beneath his general's hands.

He catches Washington's mouth in another kiss, uncoordinated and hungry. Washington obliges him, invites the greedy thrust of Hamilton's tongue. They break apart too soon, of necessity. Both breathing too hard to continue.

Hamilton's satisfaction overtakes him so suddenly he barely manages to muffle his cry in Washington's shoulder. Pleasure crests and suffuses him—carries him away—leaving him winded and aching and lost.

When his tangible senses return he becomes aware of several things in quick succession.

First and most pressing, Washington is still hard. Second, Washington has fallen perfectly still. And third, he is staring at Hamilton with an expression of wondering disbelief, eyes wide and mouth agape.

"Alexander—" Washington starts, then simply... stops. As though he has no idea what to say.

Hamilton doesn't hesitate. It's his turn now. To take command, and to guide, and to touch. He is—miraculously—not embarrassed that Washington saw him shatter to pieces only seconds ago. Now he is _salivating_ with the desire to return the favor, desperate to see the throes of ecstasy written across his general's face.

He unwinds his arm from Washington's waist, slips his hand between their bodies in search of Washington's cock. He finds his prize with unerring precision and curls his grip around warm flesh. The effort earns him a graveled groan and a tightening of the arms holding him. Washington's eyes close, and moonlit pleasure softens stern features.

It's an image Hamilton will treasure to the day he dies.

Washington has always been handsome—a measurable fact despite Hamilton's infatuation—but in this moment he is _beautiful_ , and the sight takes Alexander's breath away.

He doesn't have long to savor the view.

At the first stroke of fingers along his length, Washington ducks his head, burying a moan against Hamilton's throat. He only holds on tighter as his breath turns panting and frantic, but Alexander doesn't mind.

Hamilton's entire focus is for the task before him, the muffled sounds of Washington's pleasure, the sensation of an unfamiliar cock sliding through his grip. It's a strange experience—despite all the men he has wanted, Hamilton has never indulged—and he finds himself fascinated by how very different it is. Not just the angle, though that's also distinct. But the guesswork, the trial and error of discerning how his general likes to be touched. 

He's always been a quick study. He is good at absorbing new information. And he fast discerns how quickly to move his hand, how tightly to grip, how _perfectly_ Washington responds when he swipes his thumb over the leaking slit.

He doesn't tease. Much as he would love to hoard this moment forever, he is not so cruel as to make his general wait.

" _Alexander_ ," Washington breathes. If it's intended as a warning, it is a warning Hamilton doesn't need. He speeds his pace, urging Washington toward the precipice, desperate to see this through.

Washington spends across Hamilton's fingers with a heady groan, teeth grazing the base of his throat, hands grasping with bruising strength. Hamilton memorizes every moment, every nuance, every point of contact.

If there is a Heaven, it sounds and feels like this.

In the moments that follow, anxiety returns. Washington's breathing steadies out by degrees, and Hamilton can sense unwelcome reality creeping toward them in the darkness. His quicksilver mind refuses to quiet now that it's back in play. What if Washington instantly regrets what they've done? What if he is angry? What if he sends Hamilton away?

Hamilton's shirt is sticky against his skin, and his heart beats erratically. He is suddenly and profoundly terrified.

Then Washington shifts against him, smoothes a reassuring hand along the length of his spine. And just like that the worst of the fear dissipates. There is too much tenderness in that touch for Washington to be angry. And every moment he doesn't tear away from Hamilton as though scalded is further proof that—whatever his reaction—it is nothing so disastrous.

It seems an eternity before Washington loosens his hold and eases back, putting a modicum of space between them. His eyes, normally so guarded and difficult to decipher, are impossibly wide—two expressive bright spots in the dimness. He looks startled and more than a little bit perplexed. As though the very world has contorted into unfamiliar shapes and left him scrambling to figure which direction is up.

Hamilton can sympathize. He is feeling very much the same.

"Are you all right?" Washington asks.

Those are _not_ the first words Hamilton anticipated.

He frowns, brow furrowing. "Of course I'm all right." He is _more_ than all right. Still anxious, perhaps. Wondering how his general will ultimately react. But giddy, too. Washington is _still touching him_ , and Hamilton does not ever want him to stop.

"I'm sorry," Washington says in a stunned voice. He sounds nothing at all like the unflinching general. If anything he sounds _terrified_. Guilty and small and _wrong_.

Hamilton can abide none of those things. His gut clenches at the idea that Washington might regret what they've done.

"I don't want an apology." He sounds small and wrong himself. If only he could muster up some bravado; if only he could simply _ask_ what Washington is thinking. He is no coward to run from a challenge, but somehow he can't find the words.

Washington's expression shutters and smoothes, the staunch general exerting conscious control. He sounds calmer—almost like himself—when he says, "I give you my word I didn't intend this."

The proclamation lodges like ice in Hamilton's chest, and he blurts a plaintive, " _Sir_ —"

"I did not invite you into my bed with intimate designs," Washington presses, not even pausing to acknowledge the interjection.

"Sir, I _know that_ ," Hamilton snaps.

Under any other circumstance his tone would be insubordinate. But rank doesn't matter here. Or rather, rank matters in all the wrong ways. Their respective positions make this tryst not only a dangerous secret, but also blatant misconduct. Insubordination is nothing compared to what Washington would be guilty of in the eyes of a military tribunal.

Alexander doesn't care. And he can't bear to let Washington believe he has wronged Hamilton tonight.

"I'm not sorry," he says despite the mire of uncertainties. "I'm not sorry I kissed you, or about anything else we've done."

"I had no right to take things this far," Washington argues, but some of the usual strength has returned to his voice.

"Maybe not," Hamilton concedes. He won't win this debate by avoiding the truth. "But I'm glad you did."

Washington stares at him, absorbing Hamilton's words. Hamilton bites his own tongue and forces himself to exhibit a patience he does not feel.

The general is silent for a very long time.

"Do you truly mean that?" Washington says at last. "You need not protect me, Alexander. And you certainly need not fear reprisal."

Hamilton brushes off his first instinct—to take offense that Washington thinks he needs such reassurance—and focuses on the question. There's a somber edge to Washington's words, a caution that masks something deeper. It could be hope. Hamilton can work with hope.

"I do mean it." He chokes down stubborn pride and admits, "I've wanted you to touch me for weeks. Longer. Maybe since the first time you summoned me into your office."

"You hid it well," Washington observes, faint hint of a smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

Hamilton glares. "I don't make a habit of sabotaging my own military career."

Washington's smile grows more distinct. "Of course not."

Heat suffuses Hamilton's face at the fondness in that look. God, surely— 

Surely Washington wouldn't look at him that way if he didn't feel this, too.

Hamilton drops his gaze. He closes his eyes a moment later. Ridiculous that he can't look Washington in the eye while he says his piece, but it's too much. His chest feels tight and hot, and he _can't_. Not if he's going to say any of this out loud.

"It's not just... I don't _only_ want you to touch me. I want more than that. I'm— I have feelings. For you. And it's okay if you don't feel the same. If... If you send back to my own bed. If you don't want me here. I'll go. I won't put up a fight." He draws a shaky breath and forges on, despite the fact that he can't find the tiniest vestige of his usual eloquence. "But if you feel it too... If you'll have me. I'd rather stay."

He keeps his eyes tightly shut, forces air in and out of reluctant lungs. His skin feels too tight. His fingers clench in the fabric of Washington's shirt, as though simply by holding on he can sway the outcome of this conversation.

"Alexander," Washington says softly.

"Sir?" He should open his eyes. He can't seem to manage the trick.

He startles when Washington's fingers curl beneath his chin and tilt his head back.

"Look at me, my boy."

Hamilton can only obey the gentle command. He opens his eyes, and finds his general watching him with untempered emotion. He's never seen such honest feeling on Washington's face. It's enough to make his head spin.

Then Washington kisses him, quick and firm, and maybe it's not Hamilton's head spinning after all. Maybe it's the world itself, shifting on its axis. Reorienting to allow for the impossible. It seems as good an explanation as any.

When Washington ends the kiss and eases back, Hamilton barely resists the urge to follow.

"I'd like you to stay," Washington says. His tone is somber, his expression piercing. "But there are... other considerations."

Hamilton forces his voice steady. "Your wife."

Washington blinks in apparent surprise and says, "Yes, I suppose that's also... I meant that the weather will inevitably warm and make secrecy more difficult. But you do have a right to know." He pauses, obviously collecting his thoughts. "Martha and I have... an understanding. She knew even before our nuptials that I've never desired women for physical companionship."

"Never?" Hamilton stares, absorbing this information. He very much enjoys the physical companionship of women. It never occurred to him that a man might favor other men and _not_ also find satisfaction elsewhere.

Washington gives him a look that is at once exasperated and humoring. "Never. In all our years of marriage, this has not once been a point of contention. I don't imagine it will be a problem now."

The observation is spoken so casually. There's confidence in the pronouncement, and Hamilton realizes Washington is not simply predicting his wife's reaction. He _knows_. He has covered this ground before.

"You've..." His mouth goes dry, and he has to swallow and try again. "You've been intimate with other men." God, he feels ridiculous. It shouldn't bother him. Of course Washington has been with other men. He's twice Hamilton's age—has survived more than one war—and moreover, he's a man of money and station. Why should he refrain from seeking out the companionship he craves?

It doesn't occur to him what he's just given away—he doesn't understand why Washington's eyes have gone suddenly wide—until his general says, "But you haven't. Oh God."

"Don't," Hamilton pleads. "You can't take it back now. You said— you said I could stay. You _want me_ to stay."

"I didn't know—"

"It _doesn't matter_." Hamilton forces himself to draw air into his lungs and steady himself. He won't win this argument if he flies into a fit of passion. He needs to be reasoned. Calm. In control of himself and his faculties. 

He closes his eyes for just a moment, and when he opens them is relieved to see that Washington appears to be _listening_.

"I know what you're thinking," Hamilton says, soft and measured. "You think you took advantage of me. You think inexperience means I don't know what I really want. You think I'm too young, or headstrong, or impressionable, or... Or whatever the fuck it is that's making you doubt my judgment right now. But _you're wrong_."

"You _are_ young," Washington points out, but at least he is not removing himself from the bed. "And as to your inexperience... Alexander, the first man who touched you should not have been your commanding officer." Implicit in that tone is the painful fact that, first or fifth or fiftieth, his commanding officer should not have touched him at all.

"Stop beating yourself up for this." Hamilton bristles despite the fact that Washington is maddeningly, measurably correct. " _I kissed you_. And the only way you'll convince me to regret it is if you send me away."

Washington's entire demeanor softens. "I could never send you away."

"Good. Because I'm not going." Then, quieter, letting earnest sincerity color every syllable, "Please. We both want this."

Washington still hesitates. "You're really sure? Alexander, we will have to be so careful. These are dangerous secrets."

"I don't care about that. Hell, we could easily be dead tomorrow." He's never let fear of consequences stop him from pursuing the things that matter, and he's not going to start now.

Washington purses his lips. "That's hardly a sound argument."

"No," Hamilton agrees. "The sound argument is that _we both want this_. Isn't that enough?" Maybe it shouldn't be. Maybe Washington is right to hesitate, to try and refuse him. Maybe Hamilton is steering them unerringly toward disaster.

Or maybe this is the best decision either of them will ever make.

He holds his breath, waiting anxiously for the answer to his question. He's out of arguments. If Washington remains unconvinced, there is nothing Hamilton can do to bring him around.

Finally Washington sighs and brushes a fleeting kiss to Hamilton's temple. "Perhaps you're right."

Hamilton's heart spurs faster. "I can stay?"

Another pause, shorter this time. Then Washington ducks his head for a proper kiss, quick but forceful. Hamilton opens for him, twines his arms around Washington's shoulders. Savors the broad strength of the embrace surrounding and holding him.

It's a long time before they break apart. Washington draws back only for a moment. Only for three simple words that rekindle the bonfire in Hamilton's chest.

"You can stay."

Then he kisses Hamilton again, and the frozen world outside melts away.

**Author's Note:**

> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** if that is a place anyone still goes. In the rare instance I'm inspired to post things that aren't fic--or participate in wider fandom happenings--that's where you'll find me. :D


End file.
